Prologue
On October 22, 1962, the history of mankind came "as close to Armegeddon as it has ever come". 1 This memoir is not another chronicle of the military and diplomatic issues of the Cuban Missile Crisis. It is a personal account, concerning how this epic event affected the military families living on the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base at that time, and in particular, how it affected me and my children, ages 2 and 3.
In July 1962, my children and I received orders to accompany their father, a Marine officer, on his two-year tour of duty on the Naval Base. Marines were responsible for keeping these 45-square miles on the island of Cuba in a garrison position so the Navy could safely conduct training exercises from there.
How much did I know about the evolving drama that threatened my life and the lives of my children? And, how did it feel to be evacuated from my home and thrust without warning into the role of a displaced person? Although none of us knew it that hot October day, we were living history. We were President Kennedy's last impediment to action. With us evacuated from the Naval Base, he would be free to call Khrushchev's bluff!
Throughout this exodus, I describe my obsession to create a sense of sanctuary for my travel-weary children. All I wanted was to go home . . . and I didn't even know where that was.
Given current telecommunications expertise, it is almost incomprehensible to appreciate how little we in Guantanamo knew. We were unaware that the United States was in the middle of a missile crisis and that we were at ground zero. We had no information about the transformation of Castro's Cuba into a nuclear bastion with Russian armaments aimed at America's belly.
Since the world is still managing the debris of the October Crisis of 1962, the emotional climate described in these pages is not only timely, but ripe. Castro's ongoing indignation about American occupation of the Naval Base at Guantanamo continues to be an underlying deterrent to contemporary US-Cuba rapprochement. Additionally, the evolving events recounted in my memoir contain many of the same impassioned components that provoked the 9/11/01 terrorist Attack on America, such as occupants of a smaller country feeling righteous indignation and hostility toward a larger and more affluent one.
The sands of time are running out for those of us who had a front row seat on the Cuban Missile Crisis. It is clear the full story has yet to be told. My story is a quest for home, evoking one woman's attempt to make sense of a world that does not always make sense and presenting an intimate insight into this human drama still in search of an acceptable denouement. 1 Wyden, Peter, Bay of Pigs, The Untold Story - Simon and Schuster, NY, 1979 - A quote attributed to CIA Director, William E. Colby, 7.
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Our New Home
The home contained eleven spacious rooms. In each was a ceiling fan like those in the movie "Casablanca". If that wasn't enough, our yard resembled a Garden of Eden. To cap it all off, the aqua waters of the Guantanamo Bay shimmered just beyond the rock wall in our back yard.
My husband, Marine Captain William F. Kendig, had arrived on the Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba July 10, 1962 to begin his assignment as Supply Officer of the Marine Barracks, which included providing the troops in a garrison position with food, clothing, and shelter. It was the last day of July when I, along with our children, Billy-2, and Colleen-3, received orders to join him.
Our welcome to Cuba was the grandest I'd ever experienced. After landing at the McCalla Field Naval Air Station (Leeward Point, as it was called), we were conveyed across the Bay in the gig of the Commanding Officer of the Marine Barracks, Colonel George W. Killen. At the pier on the Winward side, we were greeted by the families of all eight Marine officers stationed there.
The quarters assigned to us had already been converted into 'home', courtesy of the combined efforts of our nearest neighbors and their Cuban domestic help. Our household effects were unpacked, sheets were on the beds, pictures were hung, and fresh flowers graced the living room. There was a roast in the oven, and the refrigerator was stocked with basic essentials, as well as a bottle of chilling champagne.
Excerpts of an early letter I wrote to my family in Salt Lake City, Utah follows: August 8, 1962 Dear Mom, Dad and Jack,
Had to think carefully to even remember the date. We've done so much since arrival I can't believe it was only a week ago. Thursday last we went to a cocktail party at the SeaBee Club. Saturday, the Marines gave us a Welcome Aboard party. Since there are only eight Marine officers here, they tend to stick together.
Tuesday morning, Bill strapped on his keys, buckled up his gun belt, and assumed the guard duty of Gitmo, which is the local nick-name for Guantanamo. It takes three and a half hours to check the guard posts on the fence line, and he must do that twice during the 24-hour guard duty. As he does so, sometimes the Cuban militiamen, guarding their side of the fence, wave or take pictures of him. It's morosely humorous.
This house is a dream. Kids are well and happy, as are we. Hope all is well with you. Do write soon! The kids and I miss you.
P.S. Today, a 'maid' was brought to our back door. . . but she's not really a maid. Can only say she is being sought by the Castro Revolutionary government, and we are pretending she is our maid to save her life. I'm not making this up! She is only 24-years-old, and very attractive - a college graduate who taught high school in Cuba.
Life here is anything but dull!
Love, Pat
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